Confessions of a Country Girl

Adventures in Hawai'i!

2012-01-20T09:25:00.002-05:00

Darrin and I are back from our trip to the islands of Hawai'i. We went there for the American Farm Bureau Federation's annual meeting in Honolulu, O'ahu, and stayed some additional days in Ka'anapali, Maui. We made some new friends, hung out with old friends, and spent quality time together. It was an unforgettable vacation.

Of course, I can't explain our entire trip--that would take a ton of posts! But, I can give you a few highlights :)

First, since we were there for the AFBF meeting, Darrin and I attended several events scheduled for us. Those events included listening to speakers, attending luncheons and dinners, and walking through the trade show. We also attended a dinner cruise, a Luau and did a Pearl Harbor tour, all arranged through AFBF.

This picture is the wall of the names of the men who died on the USS Arizona, December 7, 1941. Visiting the memorial was a very somber experience. I dare anyone that visits this memorial to not feel a patriotic lump in their throat while staring at this wall.

We also hiked Diamond Head Crater. It was a narrow, rocky path up most of the way, but there was cement steps at times. A very friendly stranger snapped this photo of us, with Honolulu in the background.

We took a little puddle jumper over to Maui, and the first thing we did was swim in the ocean. Within minutes, I cut my right foot on some rocks :( It was bleeding pretty bad and I unintentionally left blood spots on the carpet in our room. The next day, we traveled the famous "Road to Hana". We rented a convertible for this purpose and were very pleased with our day. We followed a guidebook, Maui Revealed, which led us mile marker-by-mile marker to some pretty interesting places. Much to Darrin's dismay, I insisted on wearing my flip-flops (so my foot could air out in between stops). That made the squishy, rocky climbing a little more difficult at times. He'd rather I wore my swim shoes (and I think I did...once) but I didn't like my foot being trapped in the dirt and water. This photo shows me standing on the edge of a cliff, with a waterfall in the background that most tourists miss. Following this book was the backbone of our day; honest, it said things like "3/10 of a mile past mile marker 22 is a small pull-off with a telephone pole. A little past that is a narrow path to the right, follow it for 10 squishy minutes and you will see a waterfall and valley that most tourists drive right past unknowingly." We were determined to see EVERYTHING. In all, our day was a solid 12 hours. Let me just say this: We took the part of the road less traveled, and that made all the difference.

He was determined to swim every time we stopped the car! I usually just sat on a rock, and rinsed my foot in the clear, cold water.

This picture shows me standing in front of Three Bears Falls. It was a dangerous, interesting climb down to see this. The guidebook said just past this one bridge is a path on the right that leads down...if you can get past the first few steps then the rest isn't that bad. We kept looking around and coming back to this one spot thinking "This can't be the right spot." It was REALLY steep and not really a whole lot of footing or handholds. We were literally climbing down the side of the bridge. Then, the path there really wasn't that bad. We weaved our way through some bamboo and rocks and we were there. Getting back out was rather funny. Darrin went first, and then pulled me up and out. The nearby tourists, standing on the bridge taking their pictures from far away, had their mouths hanging wide open. One lady said "Did you just come out of there?!"

We were quite surprised to see cattle on our journey! This was well past Hana...we kept going, even though signs tell you to turn back at a certain point and go back the same way you came. The reason is because the road is "unimproved" for about 5 or 7 miles. It really wasn't that bad. We live in Michigan...so we're used to bad roads. Anyway, along the southern coast of Maui is a lot cattle. I snapped this pic of the cattle shoot and the horses resting under the tree. The cowboys were working the cattle in the back, but my pic of that didn't come out that good.

We went snorkeling, whale watching, and out to dinner with friends. We bought souvenirs for ourselves and the kids. We also bought coffee for my Mom and Primo beer for Dad (he was in the Navy during Vietnam and was stationed at Pearl Harbor for a bit. Before we left, he told us that he used to drink Primo beer with his buddies and cruise the island), as a special thank-you because without them staying at our house with the kids, we would never have gone to Hawai'i. The morning that we were leaving, we took a helicopter ride over West Maui and Moloka'i. It was amazing. The pictures, obviously, do it no justice. The few decent shots I got all have window glare. Oh well, the memories have no glare :) The take-off and landing was cool too. Our pilot, Glenda, was a great tour guide.

We look forward to visiting the islands again in our lifetime. We plan to bring the kids with us and tour the historical sites again, as well as visit different islands like Kaua'i and Lana'i. If you ever have the chance to get to Hawai'i, DO IT!!!

Evolution

2011-10-29T06:52:00.000-04:00

Last night, I was in the basement playing with my kids. My oldest grabbed the toy rotary phone and said, "Mom, did you know people used to use phones like this? You put your finger in it and turn it in a circle to call someone."

That got me thinking about how advanced life has become in just the 32 years I've been alive. Yes, I'm 32. But I usually tell people I'm 29. I thought about all the phones I've had and how I've had a Blackberry for 1 year and it's already out of date and I hate it. What's next? I'd like to think that I've got at least 50 more years of life ahead of me so I'm curious to know what I'll be calling from by the time I die.

I thought about how much fun my siblings and I used to have calling each other in our house. Remember doing that? You would press 7 (or something...I don't exactly remember HOW to do it, I just remember doing it) and then your own number, hang up, and it would ring. Then you could be on one phone upstairs, and your sister on another phone downstairs and you could talk to each other. I thought it was SO cool.

So, for nostalgia-sake, I've prepared a little collage of the evolution of phones for you to enjoy. I guarantee you, I had all of these phones in my house. Happy Saturday!

Love, Country Girl

Combining Corn

2011-10-25T07:28:00.000-04:00

Last week, we finished up combining corn. Some farmers take their corn to the elevators to sell, but we keep ours and use it as feed for the cows. Darrin calls it "high moisture corn" but I don't exactly know what that means! And, as I type this now, he's digging sugar beets so I don't want to bother him by asking. My father-in-law did the combining. Here's a picture of our youngest, Riley, going combining with Grandpa.

Here's the combine at work. The header cuts 6 stalks at a time and rotates them inward to the machine. It goes through and takes the corn off the ear and spits out any debris in the rear.

When the combine bin is full, then it's time to fill the truck! The truck sits on the headland, so wherever you are in the field, you have to go over to it. The auger extends out and you fill it to maximum capacity, this truck is 128,000 pounds. Darrin, or some of our employees, will switch the trucks.

The truck comes back to the farm, where we live, and the corn is slowly dumped into the grinder. The grinder-you guessed it- grinds the corn into smaller particles (so it's easier for the cows to digest) and then blows it up into the silo. Darrin was on grinder duty this year. He wore some sexy headphones to protect his ears. The grinder is pretty loud.

This silo is 80 feet tall. The next one is 70 feet tall and there's another one that's smaller but I don't know how tall it is because we don't use it.

Moving On and Digging Beets!

2011-09-21T13:32:00.001-04:00

I still battle pain everyday. I take pain pills 3-5 times a day. It's become a common denominator in my life. However, I've moved past the pity party and have started to celebrate acceptance. I still don't like the fact that I have to live on pain medication for the remainder of my life. But, my stubborn will is not enough to relieve the pain so I reach for the little orange prescription bottles instead.

I've decided to stop boring my readers with my health issues, and instead get back to what I originally intended to do with this blog: discuss the everyday happenings of the farm and family! So here we go!

Darrin is digging sugarbeets today. It's considered "early dig" because the beets aren't completely mature, yet the factory wants to begin processing them. In order to convince farmers to dig their beets before they are ready, the company pays a higher premium for the product. I've taken some pictures of the digging process to educate those who may not be familiar!

The digger is attached to the tractor and runs off the PTO shaft. There are discs that pull the beets out of the ground and then they are thrown onto rollers to shake off excess dirt. Next, they are put into the ferris wheel, which takes them up to the conveyor. They are either taken up the conveyor and dumped into a truck or cart, or they are dumped into the hopper box.

Here is a closer picture of the digging process. The beets have already been topped (the leaves are taken off so only the head of the beet is exposed) and the leaves lay in between the rows of beets.

Here is a picture of the ferris wheel in the center, the conveyor to the left, and the hopper box to the right. You would put the beets into the hopper box if you didn't have a truck or cart to dump into. It's just a temporary holding place.

This picture shows one full truck pulling out of the way, while another truck quickly pulls up into place to be loaded.

The kids and I crammed in the cab with Darrin. We brought him dinner and watched the action for a couple rounds. Riley thought he was driving, but it's really auto-steer. You can see Darrin is turned and looking out the back window at the digger behind him. By the end of beet season, it's difficult for him to turn his head left! It hurts sooo bad!

Adrienne and I squished next to Darrin. She's a little toothless right now! She already had her pajamas on by the time we got around to taking him dinner but he didn't care ;)

Elliott had to sit on Darrin's lunch cooler next to the steering column. He was intently watching all the happenings behind the tractor.

So there you have it! I know, it's exciting stuff, right?! It is, actually! Just think of how many wonderful foods and beverages you enjoy because of sugar ;) Our co-op company is Michigan Sugar, so when you see Michigan Sugar in your local grocery store, buy it! You could be enjoying Darrin's sugar!!!

Updates with no answers and finding happiness...

2011-07-16T08:17:00.000-04:00

Well, since my last post, my life has taken another turn. I've seen a neurosurgeon who stated (somewhat arrogantly) that "the previous diagnosis is incorrect. While I respect my colleagues opinions, this is my area of expertise. Your bulging discs are not bad enough to be causing you pain." After he left the room, I sat and cried until the nurse came in and told me they needed the room for another patient. Then I took his box of Kleenex and stumbled out the door to my Jeep where I sat and cried for another hour. So...now what?! I still don't have any answers. He has ordered a brain MRI because my hyperreflexes are cause for concern. Reflexes...like he taps you on the knee with that little hammer and your leg goes boing...well, my knees go BAM! I guess that is odd.

Also, I'm finding ways to look through the fog of my pain and unhappiness and see a clearing of light. One time it was a big thing--an awesome birthday weekend with my husband and friends that distracted me from my own situation. More often though, it's little things--like these flowers I bought myself. I ran into the grocery store to get limes and bananas and came out with these flowers and a copy of People too.

Another moment of happiness (which I am STILL delighting in) was the day I received an order from Banana Republic and I fit into this size 6 dress. I ordered it on a whim, because I've been dieting and really don't know what size I am. It was on sale so I decided to give it a try.

And every day, I look at this picture of Mr. Big and me. It was taken at least 7 years ago, at a family wedding. The photograher snapped this picture of us on the dance floor, and we didn't even know it was taken till we received it in the mail from a relative. I think it fully captures our relationship--no matter what is going on around us, we are fully focused on each other. He continually reminds me that he is committed to helping me discover the source of my pain, no matter the cost (and trust me, it costs. He calls me his Rolls Royce: classy and very expensive). I joke that he should take me to the Vet and have me put down, to which he usually rolls his eyes and says "Yeah, right."

So I'll keep trudging on, everyday, hopefully a little closer to an accurate diagnosis. I'll continue to take all my medicines and behave as I should. I'll continue to pray for an end to my pain, and live in the hope that my children will never remember the years when Mommy hurt.

It feels like the end, and yet it's only the beginning...

2011-05-26T09:11:00.002-04:00

If you haven't noticed, I pulled my "Sweeps" story from the blog. I'm sorry. I had to. I promise it will be returned, when I am able to. In the meantime, I will share with you the other important thing that has evolved in my life: my invalidity.

I'm an invalid now. At least, that's how I feel. Part of me is happy, because I finally have an answer for my long-suffered pain. But there is a huge part of me that is unhappy and makes me feel trapped. I'll rewind a few years for you now.

When I quit teaching in May of 2006 I was having a lot of chest pain. I assumed it was stress because I hated teaching. I thought quitting would ease the load, free my mind, and release my pain. I began feeding calves for the farm every morning. I got up at 4:30 am while the kids were still sleeping and ran my ass off to be back in the house by 6:30 am before they woke up. Feeding calves is a very manual job. There is a lot of lifting, carrying, and walking (or running in my case). The chest pain never went away and because of all the bending, lifting, carrying, etc I was light-headed and nearly fainted a few times. Since I was diagnosed with Vasovagal Syncope as a teenager, these symptoms were familiar and I returned to my cardiologist for an evaluation. I was tested up the wazoo. Holter monitors, EKGs, stress tests, ultrasounds, you name it-I had it. And, of course, all the tests came back fine. Nothing. Nada. I felt defeated and hopeless. Someone told me that "I'm human, therefore I hurt." as if it was accepted and normal to live in pain every day of your entire life. So, I continued to feed calves and life moved forward, painfully, until I became pregnant with Little Man, summer of 2008. Then, Mr. Big decided it wasn't a good idea for me to be feeding calves.

During my pregnancy, a genetic heart disorder was revealed on one side of my family. Because of the severity of the disorder-Arrhythmogenic Right Ventricular Dysplasia (ARVD for short)-it was decided that I would go to the cardiologist that was handling the entire family and have an evaluation. Since I was pregnant, he didn't want to do much with me. The pain continued, the light-headedness continued, and I became a huge pregnant blob of tears.

I returned to the cardiologist a few months after my c-section with Little Man (which was my 6th abdominal surgery in 9 years) and a cardiac MRI was ordered. The results came back negative, of course. I felt so desperate for a diagnosis that I began to spiral downward. I felt helpless and hopeless. Life continued with no sign of help.

The pain kept on, and in fact became quite debilitating. There were days in which I could barely focus on anything but the pain. I began sleeping less, because I woke up in pain during the night--stabbing pain in my chest, stabbing so hard that it felt like real knives and it took my breath away--and then could not fall back asleep. It was always on the left side. I couldn't sleep, I was nearly delirious with pain at times. I was eating bottles of OTC pain medicines. Nothing helped.

I am a good actress though, so nobody knew I was going through this excapt Mr. Big. Even my parents and in-laws didn't know the severity of my pain. I put on a happy face when I was around other people or suffered in silence because I never wanted to burden anyone with my issues. I hid in my home, with my little people, praying to God and all the saints to take my pain away.

The pain was so bad one day that I had crazy eyes and Mr. Big took me to the ER. They followed the cardiac protocol and found nothing. Of course. And, we got a $5,000 bill weeks later because our insurance stated I had knowledge of a preexisting condition and they didn't cover it. Awesome.

Mr. Big was determined to help me find a doctor that would find a solution. I went to a different doctor, a new, young doctor in town, to give her a try. I spewed my long history on her. She left the room. She was gone for quite a while. She returned and said "I'm going to order an MRI of your spine." SPINE?! HELLO THE PAIN IS IN MY CHEST. Whatev. I've been through a million tests already in my 31 years, what's one more.

The MRI was easy. I'm not claustrophobic to any degree because I've been around the medical circuit so many times that it's all old hat to me now. The results came back. I was called in. Dr. Amazing told me I had 2 bulging discs--T4 & T5 to be exact--and they were pinching a nerve in my spine. The discs are located in the mid-back and right between the shoulder blades and the nerve they are pinching wraps around my ribcage and ends in my chest. That's why I always felt the pain in the left side of my chest. That was causing my pain all these years. Two bulging discs and a pinched nerve. Really? Serious? Am I being Punk'd? So...Dr. Amazing how do we fix it?

She sat solemnly and then spoke quietly. "There is no fix. You have an old woman's back. You can only manage the pain and alter your lifestyle." I felt like I was going to throw up. "What?! You've got to be kidding. We can put people on the moon and you can't fix 2 little discs!!! And you're telling me I have to be on pain medicine for the rest of my life....potentially 70 more years?! No way."

She ordered physical therapy for me, just to give it a try, and if I felt no relief she would refer me to an orthopedic doctor. I began physical therapy with Mr. Foreign and actually have felt some relief. This is the good news: he can help get the discs off the nerve so I don't live in pain anymore. This is the bad news: I have to COMPLETELY revamp my lifestyle so the discs stay off the nerve. One tiny bad decision and they can slip right back and BAM! He told me no lifting anything over 5 pounds, no dancing, no running, no roller coasters, no mowing the lawn, no boating, no tubing, no skiing, the list goes on...basically anything that jostles the spine at all. I have to maintain proper posture at all times. No hunching or bending. I have to get better at saying, "No. I can't do that."

So, I can't pick up my kids. I can't carry laundry up from the basement. I can't grocery shop. I can't carry a full gallon of milk. I can't carry my big purses loaded with makeup, books, a planner, a camera, diapers & wipies, a coupon organizer, etc.... This has been quite a blow to my self-worth because I feel utterly useless now. All of this came crashing down while I was writing my "Sweeps" story and I just couldn't write another word while my brain was occupied with this devastation. I'm thankful that I have Mr. Big and that he's willing to support his invalid wife forever but I feel so desperately trapped in my own diagnosis that I can't quite see my way out yet. I hope in time I will feel better, physically and mentally. And when I do, I will begin to write again.

I thank you for being devoted readers and I pray I haven't disappointed you. I hope someday I will find the strength and the words will come again.

My Toys R Us Fiasco

2011-03-16T08:20:00.001-04:00

One Saturday, a few years ago, I awoke and looked into Princess's bedroom to find a disaster of a room. She has so many Barbies, clothes, and shoes that you cannot tell the color of her carpet. The inner organizer in me believed I could find a cute storage unit to hold her multitude of Barbie items, so I went to the internet.

The Toys R Us homepage had a huge picture of Barbie and an "invitation" to Barbie's 50th Birthday Party, 12 Noon -2pm, that day, at all Toys R Us store locations across the country. It said there were 1959 edition Barbies for $3, party hats, coloring, and fun...so I approached Mr. Big about the idea of me taking Princess to Saginaw for this special event. I am already conscious of trying to avoid "middle child syndrome" so I look for ways to make things special for her. He thought it was a bad idea, traveling all the way to Saginaw for a Barbie...but he relented. He kept Wild Man with him and I took Princess and Little Man, a newborn at the time, on the road.

Big requested I take M-46, to pick something up at a tractor dealer along the way. Just past Kingston, Princess tells me, "Mommy, the poop is coming into my panties." Great. I have no extra clothes for her. I packed a diaper bag for the baby, but nothing for her because she has been potty trained since last summer. I tell her she has to hold it till I find the next potty (and we are in the 10 mile stretch of M46 that has NOTHING) and she says, "Oops, sorry Mommy I can't." I am starting to get hot.

Finally at the M-24 intersection I stop at the gas station. I drag her and the baby in the car seat along with the diaper bag and my purse into the tiny, gross bathroom. I put her on the potty. She has nothing in her panties and she squirts a little pee. I said, "I thought you had to poop?" She says, "Oh, just forget about it. It was a fart." WHAT!?! I JUST STOPPED AT THIS GROSS BATHROOM AND DRAGGED YOU AND THE BABY IN HERE FOR A SQUIRT OF PEE?!? I am furious. I am really starting to sweat.

We get back out to the Jeep and 2 miles down the road the baby starts crying. No, make that screaming. He woke up from his peaceful slumber because of all the jostling around. I am convinced he would still be sleeping had I not stopped at the gas station. I feel like I could cry. I pull over, crawl into the backseat squished between her car seat and his car seat, and feed him a bottle. Finally we get on the road, I have stripped down to just a t-shirt. We get near the Toys R Us and I grab her some McDonald french fries, since it is a special day for her, she chomps them down as I air our my armpits, and we enter into the store.

I am immediately confused. The store looks normal. No birthday banners. No birthday balloons. No birthday anything. There is an aisle that has Barbie stuff in it, but it is really sparse and there are no 1959 Barbies. The Barbie storage unit I viewed this morning on the internet is inadequately small. I ask a store employee where the Barbie Birthday Party is and he replies, "What? Oh, you mean the cheap Barbies? They were sold out last Sunday." He walks away, obviously annoyed that he has answered this question 1000 times this week. I see another store employee and walk over to her and ask what is going on with the Barbie Birthday. She says, "The Barbie stuff is over on the other side of the store." So I take the children over to the other side of the store to find in the middle of an aisle a FOLDING TABLE WITH PAPER HATS AND XEROX COLORING PAGES! Um, excuse me?!? THIS IS WHAT I DROVE 2 HOURS FOR?!? The strange looking woman with the big hair apologizes for the "inconvenience" and tells me that there was a limited number of the 1959 Barbies and they were released and sold out within half an hour last Sunday. I want to cry out loud and pull this woman's big hair out of her head.

Since I had promised Princess a Barbie, we go back to the sadly picked over Barbie aisle and she picks a mermaid Barbie. We go up to the checkout and the clerk asks me if I found everything I was looking for. I said, "No, I didn't. In fact, I am quite annoyed and disappointed. I drove 2 hours for a Barbie party to find a folding table with paper hats, and NO BARBIES!" He looks at me and says, "Well have a nice day. And, thank you for shopping at Toys R Us." He hands me the bag.

Back in the car, I take the mermaid Barbie out for her. Little Man starts crying. I want to start crying. I am scared to call Big and tell him he was right. I call my sister, who is the queen-of-turning-things-around. I barf my entire story on her and she says, "Boy, Toys R Us and you really don't get along." She reminds me that when I was a little girl, I asked to go to Toys R Us for my birthday one year. It seemed like such a fun, magical place on the commercials. Children were always playing with Geoffrey the Giraffe and I wanted to meet him. When we got to the store, there was no Geoffrey. It was not magical. It was just a store. I was disappointed. That was my birthday.

So she asks me if Princess is happy with her Barbie. I said, "Yes, she has no idea that I am disappointed. She spent the day away with Mommy, got McDonald's french fries, and a new Barbie. She's happy." My sister reminds me that I accomplished my goal of creating a special day for. She is right, of course. She is the queen, after all.

After a quick trip into JCPenney for a gift for my mother-in-law's birthday, I felt refreshed. We rode the escalators in the store a few times which was exciting for Princess and renewing for me. I was finally brave enough to call Big and tell him the whole fiasco. He didn't even say I told you so. I drove home listening to Princess play with her new mermaid Barbie and the baby slept peacefully. It ended up a good day after all, but I still don't like Toys R Us. It’s been nearly 2 years and I still don't forgive them for their misleading advertising.

The other "ladies" and the people who should SHUT THE HELL UP!

2011-03-15T07:11:00.000-04:00

The children and I don’t have exclusive rights to Mr. Big. We have to share him. We share him with hundreds of other ladies. These ladies--the cows--adore Big and make us money, so it’s okay with me if he spends more time with them in a day than me. It's really no different than anyone else who goes to work all day in an office and only sees their family at night. During the winter, we actually get to see him several times a day, because he comes in to refill his coffee, eat breakfast, do computer work, eat lunch, poop, and eat dinner. Big starts his day at five o’clock to feed and breed his ladies. They love him. They see him coming and they run to him. They know that he takes care of them. He knows them all--their individual markings, calving history, health issues, even temperaments. Each cow is unique and special and their happiness is most important to him. The feed, stalls, barn, and parlor have all been designed or updated for maximum cow comfort. They are his ladies, after all. They deserve the best.

Most of the year, when there is fieldwork to be done, he heads to the field after morning feeding. He manages the employees, runs the chopper, combine, and sugar beet harvester, along with doing all of the planting and spraying. He returns to his ladies in the evening to feed them again and sometimes he’ll go back to the fields till eleven at night. It’s not much of an exaggeration to say that we don’t get to see him April through November. He’s a busy man. Farming is an important job. Mr. Big feeds the world. I get really frustrated and angry at people (especially media) that degrade farmers. I want to shake these people and scream in their faces “You have no idea how hard he works! You have no idea how much he cares! You have no idea how much science and planning goes into what he does! YOU HAVE NO IDEA!!! You could not FEED yourself for a DAY without my man SO SHUT THE HELL UP!!!”

This life I have with Big is completely opposite of the life I had planned; I traded parties, fashion, celebrities, and Broadway for cows, tractors, diapers, and dirt roads. For some strange reason he thinks I’m funny and he doesn’t mind that I insist we sleep on a waterproof mattress pad (refer back to my Wild Man posts if you don’t understand why). I’m not gonna lie: sometimes, I wonder. I wonder what if. I wonder why me. I wonder when he’s going to change into a hideous alien mutant because so far he’s too good to be true. But then, I look at his flirty green eyes or squeeze his huge biceps, and I stop wondering. I stop thinking. I stop breathing. Because I know. I know I made the right decision: to be a Carrie in the Country.

The Little One

2011-03-14T07:48:00.000-04:00

We made a very conscious effort to try for a third baby. I had been quite content with one boy and one girl; Big left our children count up to me since I was the one who had to be cut open every time. However, Wild Man began asking God to put a baby brother in Mommy’s belly. After nearly a year of listening to his bedside prayers, we decided to give it a go and hoped like hell that it was a boy. Little Man entered the world in a really grand way: the doctor pulled him out of my belly, and he peed all over her, the floor, and nearby nurses. He has developed quite the personality in his two years of life; he uses his impossibly long eyelashes to flirt with women in the grocery store, he cries dramatically when he doesn’t get his way, and he has used sign language to communicate, which is now being replaced with short sentences. He’s a smoocher too. He loves to give kisses. He even puckers up his little lips, which is so adorable. He is a “daddy’s boy”, though. Wild Man and Princess don’t really care much for the farm, cows, or tractors. But, Little Man is never seen without an armful of John Deere. Our usual routine is this: the kids’ get on the school bus in the morning, I wander around behind Little Man picking up every tractor he drops, he brings back out every tractor I have just put away, and then the kids’ get off the school bus in the afternoon. That’s our day. And even though he destroys the house and still craps his pants, I can’t get enough of this Little Man, and I’m really glad he’s here.

No, I don't work out.

2011-03-12T07:03:00.000-05:00

For some reason, our children throw up a lot. They cough, gag, and throw up. They brush their teeth, gag, and throw up. They lick the glass case at the deli counter, gag, and throw up. I think they’re fairly normal. We usually have one child admitted to the hospital once a year for dehydration due to vomiting. It was during one such incident, in which I fell in love Big all over again.

Our daughter was nearly one year old when she caught a severe flu bug. She vomited so much that she was admitted to the hospital, as usual. I didn’t have any more sick days for work, so I quit. I didn’t really like my job anyway. It was tolerable and I think I was good at it, but I wasn’t going to leave my baby girl alone in a metal crib at the hospital and go to work. On the flip side, I don't think I was being fair to my students. Students deserve teachers that really want to be there. And I didn't want to be there. I was tired of paying other women to take care of my babies. When I told Big what I’d done, he simply said, “Well, I guess we won’t be going places for a while.” My heart opened up and flooded again with love for this man.

So now that means I don’t work out. In "country terms" that means I don’t have a job becasue I don't work out of the home. The first time someone asked me if I “worked out” I thought it was quite rude of them to ask me about my exercise routine. At that time I did work out, I was a high school English teacher at our local school. The decision to be a teacher was a huge mistake. I didn’t love teaching. I only became a teacher because I didn’t know what else to do with a BA in English living in Huron County. Since I quit my job I have taken on a June Cleaver existence: my days are filled with wiping butts, folding laundry, and making dinner. Occasionally I get to do something exciting, like drive a semi-truck or tractor, but most days I just try to sweep the dirt and not go crazy. There are times I think that Big doesn’t appreciate what I do, but I know deep in my heart that I'm doing the right thing for our children. No, our home isn't glamourous. No, we don't drive brand new vehicles. No, we don't go to exotic places all the time. No, I don't have an armoir full of sparkly jewelry. But our children have consistency. They know Mom is always home, even if Dad isn't. They know there will be a snack waiting for them when they get off the bus. They know they either eat Mom's dinner or they wait till breakfast. They know Saturday Morning Chores better get done fast, if they want to go to a friend's house. Our home is calmer and more organized now that I don't work out.

Wild Man Part III

2011-03-11T07:10:00.000-05:00

Around this time my mother, an angel of mercy walking on this earth, arrived at our home. My mother and my new husband carefully slid GARBAGE BAGS topped with towels under my naked ass so I could pee. There you have it. I’m about as wide-open for the internet world to see as I can possibly be. I peed my bed. Several times. She propped my newborn baby up to my boob and held his head up with the heel of her palm so I could feed him. She slept in the bed next to me, and Big was on the sofa in the living room. She stood next to me for countless hours, holding the soda and feeding me painkillers. She brought me crackers and cheese and fed them to me since I couldn’t even raise my head. And, during this time of drinking at least 8 cans of Coke, my milk “came in”. This meant my “A” boobs were now a “DD”. And rock hard. They were so hard and huge that my nipples actually flattened out and the baby couldn’t latch on. It was like trying to feed a baby from the side of an inflated balloon. Now, not only did my abdomen hurt from a traumatic surgery, my head hurt from a spinal headache, but now my boobs hurt from being over-filled. I didn’t have a breast pump so my mother sent Big out, in a blizzard, to the store to buy me a breast pump and little storage bottles to relieve the pressure and to help feed the baby. Once I was able to do that, things quieted down a bit. My headache subsided, I was able to sit up again, and Big helped me shower. I stood there clutching my saggy abdomen, as he washed my hair and lightly scrubbed my body with a loofah. Milk began to pour from my breasts and I cried as I watched it wash down my body. He was horrified. We were both just kids, after all. No one tells you things like this when you’re young and first married. No one tells you that it can be a terrifying experience, that weird things will happen to your body, that your new husband will never look at you the same way again. I told Big that I didn’t want to breast-feed anymore. He agreed and went back to the store to buy Similac. I’m sure there are plenty of women in this world that are advocates for breast-feeding. But I ain’t one of them.

Wild Man Part II

2011-03-10T06:46:00.002-05:00

I had thought the worst was over, after experiencing the trauma of childbirth. However, the next few days proved to be just as painful and awful. THIS TOO, IS HORRIFYING AND DISGUSTING, SO READER BEWARE. Big brought Wild Man and I home from the hospital after three days. I was so incredibly happy to leave the hospital because the nurses were so mean. They woke me up constantly, forced the baby to my breast, and allowed me no rest or recovery from the traumatic surgery. One particularly hideous nurse told me it was my job as a mother to keep my baby in my room. I could barely get myself out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom, all the while clutching my abdomen with streams of tears running down my face. “Why did you have a baby if you don’t want to take care of it?” she demanded. Already I felt like a failure at 22 years old. I was reproductively challenged, I couldn’t have a vaginal birth, and now I was an unfit mother.

When we arrived home, Big put Wild Man in his crib as I curled up on the sofa and sobbed. The bumpy ride home had nearly killed me, and my pain meds obviously weren’t strong enough. A short while later, the baby cried, and Big brought him to me. I tried to breast-feed but it just wasn’t working. My uterus contracted every time the baby suckled, which felt like someone was punching my insides. A short while later, I began to get a headache; the worst headache that anyone on this earth has ever had. I was quickly delusional from all of the pain that I wanted to shoot myself. Meanwhile, one of Big’s friends had come over to visit, and in my opinion, was overstaying his uninvited welcome. I was hiding in our bedroom, with the baby next to me on the bed, crying in agony. Finally, I mustered enough strength to walk out to the kitchen and tell Big that I wanted to die. His friend made a quick exit and Big called the doctor’s office. They assumed I had a spinal headache, caused from the epidural. This meant that when the needle went in my spine, it left a small hole, and spinal fluid could leak out into my body. This would create an imbalance in the fluid in my spine, thus resulting in a headache when I was vertical. They told Big that I would have to lay down completely flat (no pillow) for 24 hours, to allow the hole to heal itself. I also should drink Coke, because the caffeine plus my pain killers would help my suicide-inducing headache. Now let me ask you this, dear reader: what should a person do when they have to go pee? When they have to lay flat for 24 hours, all the while sipping Coke through a straw, Hmmm??? What do you do??? What do you do, when this person, has to breast-feed a 3 day old infant??? Hmmm??? How does a person pull that off?!

More tomorrow.....

Wild Man Part I

2011-03-09T13:05:00.000-05:00

I told you yesterday that today's post was going to be hideous and I'M NOT KIDDING! IF YOU HAVE A WEAK STOMACH, YOU MIGHT NOT WANT TO READ. That being said, this is how Wild Man came into the world <3

I was diagnosed with severe endometriosis when I was 18 and my prognosis was to have children before 30 or I might not have any. It was a strange conversation to have in 1997 with my new boyfriend, Mr. Big. “Um, you might want to know that I want to get married right out of college and have babies right away. Feel free to run away now.” So it was much to our surprise that after four college years of hormone therapy and laparoscopies, we became pregnant after only four months of marriage. My pregnancy was fairly normal. I put on the expected amount of weight. I diligently peed in the cup. I endured all the poking and prodding. Big’s family has a tradition of naming the belly, so you don’t call the baby “it”. The baby’s nickname was Bernard, because everyone was sure we were having a boy. I knew we were having a boy, but Big didn’t want to know. So I kept the secret. Big nicknamed my belly “Snoopy” because my belly was so huge and my belly button was popped out too, so it looked like Snoopy’s nose. The delivery was unimaginable, and honestly, I can’t believe I agreed to more children after experiencing this trauma. BRACE YOURSELF, DEAR READER. THIS IS UGLY. After an epidural and hours of pushing, it was determined the baby was posterior and not coming out. A c-section was ordered and an epidural booster was administered. Once wheeled into the OR, hooked up with wires and tubes, and strapped down on the table, the doctor began cutting. And I felt everything. I cannot put into words what it feels like to be cut into and have a child pulled out from your body. Apparently, the epidural booster had gone to the wrong spot. My right leg was numb, but not my abdomen. I laid there screaming in unimaginable pain while Big watched in horror. The anesthesiologist was shooting me with locals as the doctor was cutting right behind him. The doctor was screaming and nurses were running around everywhere. One nurse was just wiping the sweat from the doctor's forehead. It was intense, stressful, awful. Just like you've seen in the movies. I don’t understand why they didn’t gas me. It was torture in its purest form. The cutting was horrific, yes. But, the absolutely worst part was when they pulled the baby out. Imagine pulling a watermelon through a mail slot. I nearly passed out the pain was so intense. Wild Man came right before Thanksgiving, a true blessing. We started calling him Wild Man around age 2 because it made him smile. He is a quiet, thoughtful, and analytical young man, but we feel the nickname is fitting because it is so opposite of his personality.

Part II tomorrow.......

Our Wedding Day

2011-03-08T09:09:00.000-05:00

The morning of our October wedding was cold and hurricane-like windy, and the florist brought the wrong flowers. I was nearly in tears over the flower fiasco when a gift arrived via my sister, from Mr. Big. One single calla lily wrapped with a white ribbon and a torn piece of paper that read, “Barbara, Here is a little sign of my love for you. Keep on smiling and I’ll see you in a few. I’ll be up front. Forever yours, Big.” I had wanted calla lilies for all of the bouquets and boutonnieres but it was super duper expensive. Instead, I told the florist to just give us the cheapest, all-white flowers she had. I didn’t care what kind of flowers she gave us, I just wanted all white. Instead she brought pink and purple bouquets that were upside down in the holder. Our wedding colors were navy and white. HELLO! How do you screw something like that up?!?! When I walked down the aisle with my parents, I carried the mismatched bouquet and the calla lily. Sending that flower was the single most wonderful thing he could have done that day, aside from saying “I do.” The words on that paper meant just as much to me as the vows he repeated. That torn piece of paper is in a frame sitting on my bedroom dresser still today. If our house ever catches fire, I'm grabbing our 3 children and that frame. It's his promise to me.

The Proposal!

2011-03-01T12:40:00.000-05:00

Many of the early moments are blurry for me; honestly, I can’t remember the first time we kissed, or the first time we said I love you. I can only vaguely remember the night of the MSU riots, when Big successfully launched me over tall shrubbery in an effort to elude police. We had to spend the night in some random apartment and at 6am we tried to leave and the tear gas still choked us back. I yelled at the police on horseback “But we HAVE to leave! We’re supposed to be GODPARENTS in CHURCH today!” Then, my sophomore year, I accused him of leading-on another girl who lived in his apartment building (his story STILL has holes in it…). One time, he took me to see a musical at the Wharton Center even though I’m quite certain he would rather stab his eyeballs with pencils. But, after 4 years of dating and 9 years of marriage, there are a few moments that really stand out. He’s witnessed me pee the bed, and eat cottage cheese with potato chips, but here a few events that really show why I love him.

I grew up on a boat. Well, not exactly. We did have a lake as our front yard, though, and spent most summer days on my dad’s Sea Ray either fishing, tubing, skiing, or just boating around the bay. We didn’t travel the world as many people do; our family was content with camping and water sports. However, I’ve always had a longing desire to see “places”. Still, I’d never trade my youth on the water so it seemed completely appropriate that Big asked me to marry him in the middle of a lake. It was five days after my 21st birthday. His parents were camping in Northern Michigan and we visited them for the weekend. We had asked to take the boat out for a morning spin around the inland lake and after a short while, he stopped the boat and turned it off. He pulled a black box out of his pocket, cracked it open, and sweetly asked, “Honey, will you marry me?” Before my clumsy hands could fumble it into the depths below, I grabbed the big, sparkly, princess cut diamond ring and pushed it on my finger. I responded, “Yes, I’ll marry you! But, can you promise to take me places?” I never specified exactly WHAT places…just places. I want to see “places”. So far to date he’s taken me to Denver, New Orleans, New York (state not city), Chicago, Seattle, San Francisco, and Mexico. He went to Germany without me once…I’m still a little testy about that.

The One...our first date! Plus a few extra people.

2011-02-25T10:21:00.000-05:00

I knew Big’s hometown was near my dad’s hunting camp, so I hatched a plan to get him alone. In a casual conversation in the hallway, I mentioned that I was driving north to go hunting; if he wanted a ride, that would save him and me from driving alone. Very smart, Barb. Get him alone, in your car! Conserve fuel! Wahoo! He agreed and we set off for the weekend. I was packed to the gills with camouflage and novels, and he had baskets of laundry for his mother. During the 2 ½ hour drive, there was much flirting. I dare say I fell in love with him in the car that day. The one thing that held me back, slightly, was his recent ex-girlfriend was a relative of mine. That was a little awkward. However, I couldn’t deny that I was drawn to this man, and he was obviously drawn to me despite my bloodline. I should have been watching the road, but the entire drive I was watching his green eyes glisten when he laughed. His long, eyelashes were waving at me. He had a few scars on his face and hands. He had big, manly hands. Work hands. His nails were an odd contrasting white against his olive skin. Now, let me digress here…Big is a simple man. Not simple as in stupid, simple as in uncomplicated. What you see is what you get. Honestly, there is no game to him. He isn’t manipulative or calculating. He’s just a genuinely nice guy. It took me years to figure that out. And there are many stories to prove I was an idiot in the early stages of our relationship and he should have run for the hills when he saw me coming. Anyway, back to the story…So, after a month of flirting and visiting each other’s dorm rooms, I finally had him in my car. I was really hoping he would ask me out on a date. Soon. And he did. But, it was for that weekend. Doh! Houston, we have a problem: I had plans to go hunting with my dad, and my best friend from high school was meeting me there, even though she thought hunting was animal cruelty. I really wanted to see him, but I was torn. How would I make all of this work? Mr. Big had a splendid solution. He would bring a friend along and the two of them would come to deer camp and pick up the two of us. I shot a buck the afternoon of our date, so Dad had to track and field dress it because I had to get ready. My friend and I drove into town and showered and primped at my Grandparents’ house. Right on time, Big and his friend pulled into camp, as I was cursing the campfire smell. They took us to a friend’s house where we played cards and drank beer and Big called me “Toots”. Not “Toots” like a fart…”Toots” like Toot-sie Roll. That’s when I knew he was mine. He had nicknamed me. And it was sweet too. He said it without even thinking and then once it was out, his expression said, Whoops. Was that okay? I winked and smiled and bit my lower lip. It wasn’t a glamorous or romantic date, but it was perfect. Simple. Uncomplicated. Just like Big. They dropped us back off at deer camp and as they drove away, my friend looked at me and said, “You’re going to marry him, aren’t you?” I replied, “Yep.” In our wedding, we had his friend and my friend stand up together. Because we’re cheesy like that.

The One continued...

2011-02-24T08:40:00.000-05:00

I started finding ways to “bump” into him. I knew his lifting schedule, so I would HAVE to do laundry (laundry room was right next to the weight room) on those days. I figured out when he ate, and persuaded my friends to the cafeteria at those times. (Who’s the stalker now?!?) I even developed a strategic plan to get him into my room; however, that backfired on me. Big and I lived in the same dorm, only one floor apart. My roommate and I had just moved in, and we needed help moving our furniture around, and being such frail, little girls, we needed big, strong men to do the job for us. I called his room (which wasn’t hard to figure out the number because all rooms were 1 digit different from the next) and asked his roommate if they would like to come help us. Of course, his roommate was quite eager to travel up and save us poor ladies from despair—but he didn’t bring Big with him. Apparently, Big was gone for the weekend (he always went home on the weekends to work, but I didn’t know that yet) and now I had the wrong guy in my room. I had to think of another plan…and it didn’t take long because I really wanted to be alone with this guy. He was so delicious looking; I just had to find out if he smelled delicious too.

The One

2011-02-22T16:41:00.000-05:00

The One

My first memory of Mr. Big was in the dorm cafeteria. Apparently we had met before, but that too, is another article. I was sitting at a long table with all of my floor friends, and he came strolling in with some of his buddies, fresh from the weight room. He looked like Matthew McConaughey and was wearing a white tank top, yellow mesh shorts, and black lifting gloves. And, he had ginormous muscles. I pointed him out to my friends and one replied, “Oh yeah. He’s in my math class.” I was crushing instantly.

He tells me that his first memory of me (aside from our we-met-before-moment) is sitting in the cafeteria (and it may have been this very same day) with my friends and I was wearing a tight, white t-shirt and camouflage pants. I started wearing my camouflage pants when I switched dorms because honestly, I didn’t want guys to approach me. Creepy guy was still causing me to shudder at random and I just didn’t want any more drama. However, once I laid eyes on the yellow mesh shorts and bulging biceps, I couldn’t even remember Creepy guy’s name.

To be continued.......

The Creepy One

2011-02-21T07:34:00.000-05:00

Here's the latest installment in the "Carrie" saga...
The Creepy One

Honestly, I still don’t want to even think about Creepy Boy and it’s been nearly 15 years since I’ve seen him last. I met creepy boy during the summer before I started college. He was a few years older and wanted me to do things with my body that I didn’t want to do, which made me feel creepy inside. He nagged, and nagged, and nagged, and I refused. He went to a different college, but visited me often once I started college. I wouldn’t necessarily say that he stalked me; I just knew that I needed to get away from him. His creepiness was starting to affect my everyday life. I could feel something bad was brewing and I had to get away from him. And fast. So, my roommate and I switched dorms after only one month-clear across campus-without telling him (which is absolutely, undeniably the works of divine intervention because the ladies at the housing office were not too friendly). One year later, I spotted him in a 7-Eleven and nearly wrecked an end display in my haste to get out of the store. It sent me into sheer madness, but Mr. Big was able to console me in his muscular embrace. He didn’t know all the details, and he really didn’t want to know. All he knew was that I was his. To have and to hold, to protect and to love, and to beat up any man that sent me into convulsions. Thankfully, Creepy Boy never found me. Shudder. I still can’t hear Dave Matthews Band without wigging out. That was his favorite band. Please forgive me, Mr. Dave Matthews, but your music sends me into seizures.

The One That Smelled Really Good

2011-02-17T06:26:00.000-05:00

The One that Smelled Really Good

Yes, I did have a boy-friend in high school, not to be confused with a boyfriend. I want to make this distinction clear. We were friends. And that’s all I was ready for. I wasn’t ready for all of the “stuff” that typically went along with having a boyfriend. I don’t know if he was ready for the “stuff”, because we never talked about it. He never tried any “stuff” either, and never guilted or pressured. Maybe he knew that I knew I was keeping my “stuff” for a once-in-a-lifetime love. Like typical high school couples we were off-and-on over several years. He was a cute, cool, athletic, older boy and every time he broke up with me, I pretended to cry on the phone. I wanted him to feel like he was really hurting me, but what was really bothering me was that I knew I couldn’t smell him anymore. I don’t think he wore a cologne or a powerful deodorant; he just had a musky, manly scent that I really enjoyed. Occasionally, I would open his locker in school and just take in a deep whiff and I don’t think that makes me weird. He just smelled really good. Now he’s happily married with several little people, as am I, but if I ever run into him again I’ll be sure to inhale deeply. What?!?!

The One that Got Away (Or Never Was, Actually)

2011-02-16T15:09:00.002-05:00

The One that Got Away (Or Never Was, Actually)

Thinking about this boy still confuses me. Because of that, he doesn’t deserve much attention. But I will say that I liked him enough to slap him once. Not many people know about him, or my brief feelings for him, but he knows who he is. I really never thought of myself as a sexy siren, but as a teen I had been around enough males to know when a boy liked me. This kid, however, was a complete enigma. I couldn’t read his signals to know if he liked me or just tolerated me. One day, he would be flirty and my belly would be all tingly inside and the next day he would be rude and hurtful. I don’t consider him my first crush, because it never amounted to anything more than a kiss one night and a slap the next day. I consider him the one that never was.

"Carrie" continued...The First One

2011-02-15T16:40:00.000-05:00

This excerpt is a continuation of the post, 'A "Carrie" in the Country'

My father and I have an unspoken understanding of one another. It’s so unspoken that I can’t describe it to you now. But, I can tell you a few things about him and hopefully you will feel in the center of your chest the same mushiness for him that I do.

My dad is funny. So funny, in fact, that nary a conversation with him passes without my sides aching, my eyes watering, and my mascara running down my face. This, itself is funny, because dad usually doesn’t say that much. He’s more of an “observer” than a “talker”. He still carries my senior picture (in which I’m in the woods, outfitted in full camouflage, and holding my Remington) in his wallet. Dad served two times in Vietnam. I don’t know much about his time in Vietnam because he doesn’t talk about it. Ever. But he’s seen every episode of M.A.S.H. eight million times. I know he was in the Navy. He worked the radar on a fuel ship. He shot a little Vietnamese man’s cow. He lost his high school class ring in Pearl Harbor. That’s all I know. As much as I’d like him to talk about his time in the military, I’m fairly certain he’ll take all of his demons with him to his grave. I can respect that.

Dad also quit smoking. March 10 is his quitting-smoking anniversary. He quit smoking (after like 40+ years) because of a bet he had with my grandmother. I used to break his cigarettes and throw away his ash trays, but she bet him that he couldn’t quit for one year. The bet was $100. Which might not seem like much to any of you, but for my penny-pinching grandmother to GIVE AWAY $100 was really something. He collected that $100 and never looked back. I’m so proud of him. I call him every year on his anniversary. It’s been 10 years, I think. Way to go, Dad.

Dad was a pillar of strength for my mother as she suffered a severe struggle with depression. I don’t know many of the details, because I prioritized my own little family first, but I do know it was many years, many prescriptions, many fights, many dollars, many appointments, and finally resulted in electric shock therapy at a university hospital. But we got her back. Because of dad. He truly saved her life. That’s love at its finest. In sickness and in health, till death do us part. Now that’s a man if I’ve ever seen one.

A "Carrie" in the Country

2011-02-12T12:03:00.000-05:00

This post, and subsequent posts from here on out, have been a long time coming. You see, I created this blog as a way to reach out to myself, to clear the cobwebs in my head, to find a direction for my life. I also created it as an homage to a woman who is not unlike myself, Ree Drummond. I've been following her blog (thepioneerwoman.com) for some time now, because I love her wit, she writes respectfully about agriculture and the folks who do it, and she loves her husband and his ass and their children and writes about them and their life together. I've never thought a normal person's life could be so interesting! I've been complaining a lot lately about how un-directional my life feels to me, but I reconsidered my un-direction when a long-time friend told me to "Grow where you are planted." It was so poetic and moving that I've decided to do just that. (Thanks, CR!) I will grow and bloom where I am at. I live in Huron County, Michigan. It's a little rural town with one stop-light. Community members organize spaghetti dinners when someone is ill. We live on a dirt road, miles away from town. In the summer, our house is covered in fly poop. We have to go pick up our own pizza. The school bus pulls right into our driveway to pick up our kids. My husband is up early, he works late, and he's often speckled with manure. But I can always see his green eyes. And his big muscles no matter how many layers of clothes he's wearing. I can quickly get sidetracked when I speak about my Matthew McConaughey look-alike husband so I'll just spit out what I've been wanting to say for so long...I wrote down a little something I'm calling, 'A "Carrie" in the Country', which also compares me to the hit Sex and the City character Carrie Brashaw. I will begin posting a little niblet at a time. Once I'm done with that, I'll write about whatever moves me then...and I have no idea what that is right now. Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A “Carrie” in the Country

Shortly before the television debut of Carrie Bradshaw, a fresh-faced Midwestern teen dreamed of New York City, fashion, nightlife, friends, and…writing. Yep. That’s right. I am the original Carrie Bradshaw. I dreamed of working in the magazine industry and taking the Big Apple by storm. However, a funny thing happened on the way to the city. I met my Mr. Big. Or, you might call him my Marlboro Man because I believe I’ve got a little Ree in me too, but that’s another article all together. The men in my life have been far fewer than Carrie’s but our search has always been one in the same: to find love and to put it in words.

The First One

You might be waiting to read about my first crush, first boyfriend, or even first lover. That man, I can assure you right now, is the same person. However, my true first love was my daddy. As the last born child of four, I was often referred to by my father as “Peanut” or “Caboose”, which were all terms of endearment to a 5 year old but words I resented as a teenager. I never told him because I didn’t want to hurt him; instead, I searched for ways to obtain a new moniker. I developed an interest in his out-of-doors activities and because of my accurate shooting ability, I then became “Sureshot”. Hunting with my father satisfied several things: I got a new nickname, I spent time alone with my dad, and I could monitor how much he smoked cigarettes. Recently at my grandfather’s funeral, I wept some for the passing of my dear Oychets, but mostly for my mother. Because someday I will be the daughter weeping over the loss of her father as Taps is played and shots are fired.

Stay tuned for more....

It's ME Time

2011-02-10T12:38:00.000-05:00

Ahhhh...it's ME time right now. This is the time of the day I savor the most. It used to be early in the morning, when the house was still dark and everyone was sleeping. I'd light a few candles, pour a cup of coffee, and sit down to clean out my email inbox. Now, my children often wake me in the morning, so that sacred time no longer exists. Now, ME time is after lunch, I put the baby down for a nap, and the house is wholly mine. And quiet. It's the time that I go to the window with a handmirror and pluck my eyebrows. Or, I might take a ridiculously long, hot shower. Sometimes, I curl up on my reading sofa with a book and then fall asleep. Today, I'm sharing it with you. Which is really me, after all. Because I started this blog as a way to reach out into the nothingness of cyberspace and speak to myself. To put down in concrete letters all of the thoughts that swim in my head everyday.

Today I want to open up and be completely vulnerable.

Recently, I applied and interviewed for a part-time assistant position. I was excited about the opportunity to get out of the house 2 days a week and work like the rest of the world. I wanted to have something separate and important outside of Darrin, the children, the farm, and the house. I wanted something that was only mine. Except that the interview was over 3 weeks ago so now I'm faced with the realization that I can't even get a job as a part-time secretary. I have a BA in English from Michigan State University, taught high school English for 3 years, and now I can't even be a secretary (no offense to all the secretaries of the world, because we all know that you're the ones that really get shit done). But really. Talk about a blow to the ego. I told Darrin he can never leave me because I've got nothing. Noth-in.

I don't really know what else to say except that it makes me really sad. I've been searching for something else to make me happy for so long, but I guess I'll just stay at home and quit looking.

No...I wasn't hitting on you. I was trying to help you find the dill, you dink.

2011-01-10T08:10:00.000-05:00

One of my New Year's resolutions was to be a nicer person. (The other one was to use Facebook less.) It's not that I'm outrightly rude or vindictive to people, I just don't think to SAY nice things. I might THINK "Wow, she looks nice today." but I won't say it to her. Also, I never think to send sympathy cards. Stuff like that. I want to be a nicer person.

So, last Wednesday while I was grocery shopping, I passed a man in the baking aisle who looked thoroughly confused. I quickly thought to myself, "This is an opportunity to be nice!" and I stopped and asked him if he needed help finding something. He looked at me and then said, "Um, no. I'll just call my wife. She'll tell me where the dill is." So I said "Ok" and went on my way. Then, when I was in the frozen aisle, I noticed he turned down the aisle, saw me, then quickly turned out and went away. I laughed to myself when I realized what happened. He must have thought I was trying to pick him up.

Really? Dude...for one thing...I was wearing my LARGE engagement ring and wedding band (which is full of sparkly diamonds) with our 3rd child sitting in the cart. AND...you're not THAT attractive. Every man in the world is at a serious disadvantage because I married a Matthew McConaughey look-alike. So, Mr. Dill, I wasn't hitting on you. I was trying to help you find the dill, you dink. SO MUCH FOR BEING NICE! HAHAHA!